


Avengers vs. Worst. Christmas. Ever.

by nwhepcat



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Blues, Found Family, Gen, My Sitwell is not an evil Sitwell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 13:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9072778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: Clint is having a rough time this Christmas. Turns out, he's not the only one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Out of Silence: a Series of Life-Altering Conversations Involving Clint Barton](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2407949) by [nwhepcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat). 



> Warnings for grief, PTSD, hospitals, post-surgical pain and disorientation, references to crappy families of origin, references to kidnapping by stalkery wannabe supervillains. 
> 
> This fic is an excerpt adapted from a larger work (still in progress as of this writing), Out of Silence. 
> 
> Takes place around the timeline of Iron Man 3 (spoilers, natch). 
> 
> Oh, and my Clint has a cat named Pasha.

On December 4, 2012 at 6:27 p.m., on Carmine Street across from Father Demo Square, Clint is mugged by Christmas. As he rounds the corner, the smell of evergreens assaults him. The sidewalk has been turned into an improvised tree lot, with netting wrapped trees leaning against a chain-link fence on one side, and a truck with Maine plates on the other. All that’s left is a narrow path for one-way foot traffic, but somehow accommodating a two-way stream of pedestrians because of course it does, this is New York City.

The overwhelming scent of pine and spruce, something Clint has always liked, puts him back in Phil’s apartment for their first—and last—Christmas together. The sense memory and tight space sets off a wave of claustrophobia, stopping Clint in his tracks just inside the tunnel of tree bundles. Two impatient walkers shove their way past him without a word, and a third grunts, “Move it, asshole.” Clint whirls, snarling “Fuck off” into the guy’s face. It’s a voice he doesn’t use often, promising violence. He has few opportunities to judge its scare factor because issuing warnings is not in his job description. The man takes what looks to be an involuntary step back. Clint shifts his stance, ready for a fight, as he’s well aware of the universal ingrained response of assholes to having flinched. 

The guy seems like he might go for it, until Clint gives him the merc assassin face. He’s not sure he’s got it down perfectly—it’s been a long while—but it’s enough to make the guy break eye contact and step aside. Now facing the way he’d entered, Clint takes the opportunity to make his escape from the tunnel of trees.

Once it’s tagged him, though, Christmas stalks him all the way home. Store windows with blinking lights, Salvation Army bell ringers, bus ads for the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, holiday songs oozing from store speakers. 

By the time he makes it back to his suite in the Tower, his lizard brain takes over, sending him to his closet to sling clothes into a bag. He flicks through his mental Rolodex for his best personal cache of IDs, money and weapons. The thing that breaks his grim flurry of activity is Pasha sashaying into the room and yawning extravagantly. 

_Shit._ Clint’s well aware that Jarvis and the elaborate auto-feeder will make sure Pasha’s taken care of, but he wants the cat to have the thing he thrives on—attention. He gathers Pasha up in his arms and sits on the bed, curling himself over the rumbling warmth.

“Hey, Jarvis,” he says after a while. “Do you know where Dr. Banner is?”

“He is currently in the shared kitchen, Agent Barton.”

Clint and Pasha find Banner rummaging in the refrigerator, exactly as advertised. “Hey,” Clint says in greeting. 

“Hey,” Banner responds. He piles takeout containers on the countertop. “I’m getting ready to heat up some of the Tibetan food from the other night. There’s enough, if you want some.”

“Yeah, sure. The perfect combination of Chinese-style cooking and potatoes. What’s not to love?”

“And yak butter.”

“Oh fuck yeah, yak butter. I wonder if we could convince Tony to get a yak. He could give it its own floor. You know he could figure out how to grow grass inside a high-rise.”

Banner smiles. “I think you’re right, if he put his mind to it. And he’d come up with some groundbreaking biofuel from methane and yak shit.” He dumps various containers into baking dishes. “Are you in a hurry to eat? I was going to reheat this in the oven. I don’t like the microwave for that.”

“Fine by me.” As Banner continues his work Clint rummages in the cabinet for a can of wet food, which prompts much sass from Pasha as soon as he pops the lid. He spoons some into a saucer and carries it to an out-of-the-way corner, accompanied by a litany of impatient yowls. 

"What do we want?" Clint chants, timed to accompany Pasha's outbursts. "Chowwwwww. When do we want it? Nowwwwwwwwww."

When he straightens, Banner is watching, bemused.

“So, what’s your position on cats?” Clint asks. “Adorable or irritating as hell?”

“Yes,” Banner says. 

“Yeah, okay, that’s the only reasonable answer to that question.”

“But you were asking something else. Since you’re usually more direct, I’m thinking it might have something to do with the other guy.”

“Well, yeah. I’m going to be gone for a while. I was wondering if you’d mind hanging out with my cat for a while each day.”

“Without turning into what Tony calls a giant green rage monster?” he asks wryly.

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“If ‘irritating as hell’ set me off, Tony’s workshop would be a smoking ruin by now.”

This teases a snort from Clint. “Fair point.”

“I’d be glad to. I like cats,” Banner says. “Mission?”

“Nah, I just—I just realized Christmas is coming.”

“What, you were off-world since mid October?”

Clint has to laugh. “Preoccupied, I guess. Anyway, if I hear that fucking McCartney song one more time _I_ might just turn green and—“ His brain catches up with his mouth and prompts him to shut it. “Sorry.”

A glint of amusement appears. “No worries. Bad associations?”

Clint laughs again. “Not like you’re probably thinking.” He had no intention of going into it, but it occurs to him that every time he lets himself be open with one of the other Avengers, he winds up with another teammate in more than name only. So he pushes himself out there. “Well, that too, but a year ago I had an op go FUBAR on me. I’m still not actually sure if I spent Christmas day in captivity or in the hospital after. Coulson helped get me through that, but then—“ he makes a vague gesture of _What can I say?_

Bruce blinks. “That’s a little worse than Dad taking the Christmas presents into the back yard and setting them on fire.”

“Shit, your old man did that?”

Banner’s expression is the only answer he needs.

“Fuck.” Shaking his head, Clint says, “All mine did was—“ He makes a loose fist, miming cocking his arm to deliver a backhand blow.

Banner huffs a sound that’s almost like a choking laugh.

It sets off Clint’s dark sense of humor, and he does laugh. It takes a moment before Banner breaks, but once he does the two of them quickly descend into a giggle-snorting mess. They’re still at it when Pasha stalks over to the stool Clint has collapsed onto and registers a loud, strident complaint. 

By the time Clint bends to pick him up and rises with an armload of cat, Banner has reined himself in somewhat, pulling in a stuttering breath to say, “Jesus, that’s fucked up.”

Clint smirks. “It is what it is.” The memory of saying the same thing for the same reason to Phil rises up, but he pushes it aside to be dealt with later. In great fucking depth. Instead he introduces Pasha to Bruce—what the hell, they’ve had a laughing jag over their brutal childhoods, so he’s definitely Bruce now—and proceeds to tell him of his sacred obligations in attending Pasha’s royal presence.

***

Clint spends the next three weeks as far from Christmas cheer as he can possibly get. He feels a bit like an asshole blowing such an obscene amount of money on a luxury cabin built into treetops in Thailand, but since it’s merc money he’d made taking out a particularly nasty band of rebels back in the day, he can live with it. 

The jungle is a constant buzz of noise, a riot of color and movement. Smells of earth and plant life and cooking food. After a week it occurs to him that some human contact might be bearable, so he takes to appearing at an occasional meal with other guests, and taking the field trips to learn about the creatures making the constant racket. The social shit wears thin after a while, though, so he takes advantage of what he’s learned about his surroundings to take off on his own. He spends as much time scaling to the treetops as he does on the ground. The forest canopy stretches far enough that there’s not much to be seen but more trees, but he’s fine with that. After his first excursion, the hotel manager warns him about “wandering off”—actually, scolding is more accurate. Clint pries some details out of the man in between exclamations of “very dangerous!” and swears he’ll stay on the hotel compound or travel with an approved tour, but he just becomes cagier about his comings and goings. 

He’s not without weapons, of course, despite traveling by a commercial airline. Stark’s 3-D printer is even more sophisticated than the ones on the market, so he’s got a sweet bow, a metric fuck-ton of arrows, a pistol and a couple of knives that escaped detection. He encounters nothing that requires their use, however. His vacation is nothing but vacation.

It’s good, he supposes. The wild beauty and color wherever he looks, the unceasing song of the jungle, the food. The other travelers are generally pretty interesting people. Despite all this, he comes to a realization. As horrible as last Christmas was (and “horrible” has now become Clint’s gold standard for ridiculous understatement, thanks to Bruce), once Phil pulled him out of that horror show, he was right there at Clint’s side as he recovered. 

Talking him down during a panic attack, rearranging Clint’s world to make the unbearable things a little less so. Giving him Pasha, so vital to his wellbeing, even now. Offering his patience, his wry humor, his _Philness._

Clint watches the rapid sunset from his vantage point in his treehouse suite, mulling all this over. Would he trade this insanely lush landscape for what he’d been through last year and his agonizingly slow recovery? If it meant he could have Phil back, yeah. He sure as fuck would.

***

Though he’s late coming down to dinner, Clint picks up on the tension the moment he arrives on the dining deck. President Ellis’ name filters through the forest’s twilight noises and Clint groans inwardly. A new guest who’s a bloviating horse’s ass, most likely. But the thought no sooner crosses his mind than he realizes it’s the wrong kind of tension for political gasbaggery to be the cause. The hotel manager and various staff members are also lingering around the table, where platters are not being passed and forks are not being lifted. The soft music that usually plays during the dinner seating, he now notices, is silent. 

_Shit._ “What’s happening?”

Something called the Iron Patriot has torn Air Force One apart in mid-flight, the manager tells him. The staffers on board were saved by Iron Man, but the president is missing. The plane blew apart, but the survivors think Ellis was already off. Nobody knows for sure. They think it has something to do with some terrorist wack-job who calls himself the Mandarin, who’s been blowing up random towns and intercepting broadcast stations to air his rambling manifestos. 

_Fuck fuck fuck._ Clint turns and dashes back to his suite, all the while berating himself for making sure no one could reach him all this time. He’d left word with his therapist and with Sitwell that he was taking time, but he’d left no contact information. Not even Bruce had that.

He sorts though his shit to find the burner phone he’d brought and calls Sitwell. “Jesus, Jasper, I just heard what’s going on. Can you get me transport from Thailand?”

“For fuck sake, Barton—“

“Save it for when I’m back. You can even kick my ass if you want. Fill me in, man. Margaret Thatcher kidnapped the president? Isn’t she dead?”

“What?”

“Iron Lady or whatever.”

Jasper snorts. “Iron Patriot—it’s War Machine. The Air Force decided he needed rebranding. Somehow the suit was compromised, and some jackhole used it to snatch Ellis.”

“This Mandarin? And who the fuck is he, and where did he come from?”

“I know, right?” Jasper says. “If the linguistics people ever figure out his fuckin’ accent, maybe we’ll get it sorted out. We’re pretty sure he’s not Asian.”

“Maybe he’s Tangerine.”

Jasper snorts again. “It’ll be good to have you here. Give me your location and I’ll find you a ride home.”

By dawn Clint’s throwing his bags into a jeep, starting the first leg of his journey back to the States.

***

By the time he makes it back to the mainland, the whole clusterfuck is over, with enough pyrotechnics to rival every 4th of July around the country, all rolled into one. Despite that, the president is unharmed, except for a few bruises and singes. The Mandarin turns out to be a manufactured spectacle fronting for a homegrown megalomaniac. The fake terrorist is under arrest; the real one is presumed tango down, doubtless a barbecue briquette now, no body expected to be recovered. Tony and Pepper are battered but more or less okay, but Stately Stark Mansion, West is a steaming pile of rubble in the Pacific.

The junior agent accompanying him on the flight from Edwards to New York shows him the video from the last few days, starting with the bullshit Mandarin manifestos and Tony’s counter-manifesto to a crowd of reporters.

“Tony, you suicidal motherfucker,” Clint murmurs. He turns on the agent. “Who’s he avenging? Are they hurt or dead?”

“Guy that used to be his driver. Happy something. He got fucked up in one of the explosions, but he’s expected to make it.” The agent—McAllyn—gives Clint a sidelong glance. “You call him Tony?”

Clint ignores McAllyn’s little fanboy moment, eyes locked on the display. Tony’s speech was, of course, the Best Christmas Present Ever! to the media, so naturally camera crews were perched out on Malibu Point to capture the ensuing destruction. Though he knows Tony’s all right, it still sickens him to watch everything crashing down. The thought of losing someone else in his world— _his family_ is too much to bear. Clint wants to tell McAllyn to shut the fucking thing off, but he can’t bring himself to look away. He should have been there, at least been available to be called in— _fuck_ he should have had Tony’s six.

And where the hell was SHIELD? This is such a great question that he turns and poses it to McAllyn.

“We were monitoring the situation,” he says. He seems very nervous.

“ _Monitoring?_ ” Clint snarls. “Nice fucking monitoring, asshole. They got their hands on the _President_.”

Half of his fury, he knows, is directed at himself, but he still thinks President Ellis ought to call a special investigation to hold Fury’s feet to the fire. This goes beyond mere clusterfuck into something that doesn’t even have a name. Still, it’s not the fault of a junior agent. Clint offers a vague wave of the arm that he hopes somehow conveys apology and moves on to the next set of clips. 

By the time he’s on the ground again, Clint feels as if he’s been through a mission himself, not three weeks of fucking off in a Thai treehouse. Sitwell meets with him to ream him out for disappearing, but admits they couldn’t have reached him if they’d wanted to. The comms throughout SHIELD were FUBAR for days during the crisis, which is why they made no response. 

“I wouldn’t need the comms,” Clint shoots back. “If I’d seen that clip on the news of Tony telling the Mandarin to motherfucking bring it on, I’d have been out there waiting for those miserable fucks if I had to ride a goddamn bike to get there.”

“Don’t hold back, Barton,” Jasper says drily. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Fuck you, Jasper.” Clint emphasizes this with a finger poke to Jasper’s sternum. “Stark has my back when we’re out there. He might not be SHIELD, but he’s my teammate, and nobody laughs that off, not even you.”

With that, he stalks out of Sitwell’s office and makes his way back to the tower. After he stops in his suite to toss his bags and gather Pasha up into his arms, he heads to the kitchen to make a pile of sandwiches. As he packs everything into a knapsack cooler, Clint asks, “Jarvis, where’s Tony?”

“My apologies, Agent Barton, but Sir has asked not to be disturbed.”

“Right,”” he says, heading for the elevator. “Take me to his workshop floor, will you?”

“Sir was most emphatic that he wished to be left to his work.”

“Do you think he should be holed up on his own right now? Because he hasn’t been on his own anywhere close to enough lately.”

“Sub-basement level three,” Jarvis intones as the elevator begins to move.

_Fuck yeah, I just won an argument with an A.I._

Tony Stark himself is a little harder. “I’m working,” he shouts through the intercom.

Clint hefts the pack. “Then you could probably use some food.”

“My instruments are much too delicate to let that cat-hair generator in here.”

Cursing softly, Clint has to concede the point. “Yeah, all right.” He sets the pack against the glass door of the workshop. “ _Eat._ ”

He takes Pasha upstairs again and lets himself be overtaken by the exhaustion of his re-entry. He curls up on the bed with Pasha and lets everything go.

***

Twelve hours later, Clint has revived himself, unpacked and done his laundry, changed into non cat-haired clothes. “Jarvis?”

“Yes, Agent Barton. How may I be of service?”

“Tony’s still in his workshop?”

“He is indeed, but he wishes—“

“Know what my old man used to say about wishes? Wish in one hand and crap in the other— Well, I forget the rest because I was always stopped in my tracks wondering why I’d want to crap in my hand.”

“A brief internet search informs me it is, ‘and see which gets filled faster,’” Jarvis says drily.

“If you ever happen to hear me say that to a kid, feel free to electrocute me. So, are we on the same page about Tony’s wishes?”

“I believe we are, sir. The elevator just arrived in your foyer.”

When he gets on, the button for sub-basement three is already lit.

***

Tony looks like refried shit, which is hardly a surprise, but a couple of things make Clint feel a little better. The knapsack has been hauled inside from its spot by the door, so Tony at least has thought about eating in the last twelve hours. And Pepper Potts is inside the workshop, looking like she’s just arrived—which means eventually she’ll make him look after himself. She’s also, he knows by lip-reading, bullying Tony into letting him into the workshop this time.

As he enters, Clint says, “Don’t worry, Jarvis put me through the tanning/lint roller pod.”

“We have one of those?”

“Hi, Ms. Potts,” Clint says. He’s never seen her dressed as she is now: in a gray t-shirt and athletic shorts, her hair drawn up into a ponytail. Tony’s begun pasting circular pads onto her body, like Clint had for the EKG before his implant surgeries, only a lot more. 

“Please. It’s Pepper.” Now that he’s closer, he notices she doesn’t look all that great herself. “How was your Christmas?”

“More restful than I’m used to. I get the feeling yours wasn’t.”

Pepper gives him a weary smile. “Oh, it was the usual. Aspiring supervillain makes the cliche move, kidnaps hero’s girl.”

Tony indicates Pepper with a wave of his coffee mug. “If I said that, she would club me to death.” He gives her the side-eye. “False modesty does not become you, Madame CEO.” Turning back to Clint, he says, “She was a badass.”

Clint offers her a smile. “I get it. Survive a shit-show, and joke it off as just a little gas. I do it, Nat does it, pretty much every SHIELD agent I’ve known does.” Parking himself on Tony’s work table, he says, “Seriously, though, how are you? Intel I got didn’t even mention you.”

“I got injected with something we’re trying to analyze,” she says with a wan smile. “Either I’m joining the superhero club, or I’m going to go up in a fireball and take a city block with me.”

“ _Hey,_ ” Tony says. “You’ve got two certified geniuses working on it. You are not blowing up.”

“Jesus,” Clint murmurs. “Wait. Is _that_ what those bombings were?”

“Yeah. Unforeseen side-effect of meddling in things Man was never intended yadda yadda yadda. Our wannabe supervillain asshole decided exploding people were too good to go to waste, so he created the Mandarin to take credit. Leverage whatever he could from that.”

“Jesus,” Clint says again, though he’s thinking more of what was done to Pepper than the fake terrorist angle. “This fucker _is_ tango down, right? That’s what I heard. Did you see it?”

“I saw it. And none of the others who went nuclear survived.”

Clint sees a rise in tension in Tony’s eyes, the set of his mouth.

“But,” Tony adds, “we don’t know if there are stable Extremis users out there. We don’t know much, in fact. Was this a one-time treatment, like Cap’s serum, or do they need maintenance doses? Whatever happened to old-school mad geniuses who told their entire nefarious plans to their captives? All he told Pep was how she should have given him a chance back when he was hitting on her.” With that, he hurls his mug across the room to shatter against the wall, coffee splashing against the wall and floor.

“Tony,” Pepper says, her voice half chiding, half soothing.

Clint hears a sad little squeal from another part of the room. A machine with a pincered arm, apparently strapped into a surrounding structure, clacks its claw in the general direction of the mess.

Sighing, Tony rubs his hand against his forehead. “Sorry.” He looks up at Clint, his age more apparent than usual. “Pep and I have to get back on this. Thanks for the food, by the way.”

“Sure.” He decides he’ll bring more down later, something hot, maybe. “Oh hey, how’s Happy? I heard he was hurt pretty bad.”

“He’s mending,” Pepper tells him. “He’s lost some hearing, but it might still come back on its own. If not, well—“

“He’s got access to a damn fine expert on assistive tech,” Clint says. He makes a move toward the door, but Pepper reaches out to catch his arm.

“Before you go—I hope you don’t mind me asking. I keep wondering, but never at the right time.”

“What is it?”

“Phil mentioned someone he was seeing. A cellist? I don’t know if anyone knew about her, or where to reach her, but I think someone should try. If she hasn’t been notified.”

Clint blinks. This is so out of left field it’s from some other ballpark. As he works to process this, he gets a mental image, then he bursts out laughing. After a moment he manages to calm it down to a lopsided grin. “Sorry. He meant me.” At her baffled expression, he adds, “I do play with a bow.”

“You and Agent?” Tony blurts. “You and Agent were a thing? How did I not know this?”

“Nobody knew, except Fury, Tasha and a couple of other people. And that was due to circumstances beyond our control. And now Steve. Cellist, though. That’s priceless. You must’ve tried to set him up, am I right?”

Pepper colors prettily, looking caught out.

“That’s just adorable,” Clint says.

“I just thought he was too good a guy to let go to waste,” she says.

“I completely agree,” Clint responds, adding a little eyebrow action to the remark.

“Pepper, I don’t even _know_ you,” Tony says. “Well, you either.” He sobers. “That explains a few things.”

“I guess it would. _Hey,_ ” Clint says abruptly. “You two need to get back on with your research. Let me know if there’s any way I can help.” He has no idea what he could contribute, but he wants to offer something. “Non-flammable Type A blood, or whatever.” He wishes them luck and lets himself out.

Chuckling, Clint heads for the basement to do a few laps in the pool. _Cellist. Goddammit, Phil, how can you make me laugh, even now?_

***

There’s plenty of tension around SHIELD in the aftermath of the Mandarin debacle as they try to track down their global communications failure. When _Fury_ storms through the office looking like their are teeth marks on _his_ ass, Shit is officially Real.

Clint gets called on the carpet so Fury can deliver a trickle-down ass chewing, which Clint endures like a man, without snark or defiance. Then he’s shown to an airless office where he gets to fill out a metric shit-ton of paperwork. Then he’s officially on suspension for two weeks. By the time he fills out the stack of forms, it’s after 10 p.m., so he heads to the theater district for two giant bags of garlic-laden Italian food at the restaurant with the mouthwash dispensers in the restrooms. 

Remembering his idea to bring Tony some hot food, Clint goes straight to the workshop to lure him to the communal kitchen. He finds Tony covered in grime, working on the claw-robot. 

“Hey. Dinner. Come and get some while it’s hot.”

“Let me just—“ The garlic scent apparently reaches Tony, bringing him to his feet. “Carmine’s?”

“Yep.” 

Tony practically beats Clint to the workshop door. 

***

Tony scrubs his face, arms and hands at the kitchen sink while Clint extracts to-go container after container out of the bags. It’s an enormous amount of food—enough to challenge even Steve. “Meant to ask,” Clint says. “How’s Pepper doing?”

Tony rubs at his face. “She’s good. The Extremis is stabilized, and Bruce is working on reverse engineering the thing so we can study it. I’m working on finding any existing files Killian left to hack my way to the answers, and see if there are any others we can find who’ve been injected with this stuff.” He towels off with a dishtowel, which is fairly worse for wear afterward. Tony’s a bit streaky, but it’s good enough for Clint. “But Pep’s going to be okay. She _is_ okay.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Hell, I hate it when civilians who are total strangers get caught in the shit, much less my people.”

“You actually have people who aren’t in the spy business?”

Though it’s a fair question, it stings a little. Clint covers by taking a drink of his beer. “Some,” he says curtly. He met some good people volunteering after the Chitauri battle. Deflecting, he asks, “How are you doing?”

“Me?”

“Well, you know, the whole fake terrorist organization raining down real terror on your head. I’ve watched some of those films a few dozen times. It looked to me like you were unconscious or the closest thing to it inside the armor when you got clear of the wreckage out in Malibu.” 

“I was a little battered,” Tony admits.

“And nearly deep-fried. Right now you look like sleep is your mortal enemy.”

Tony runs a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in a wild mess. “Yeah, well, that’s been a thing.”

“Before the whole Mandarin shenanigans?”

This characterization prompts a twitch of a smile. “It turns out free-falling from an alien dimension is on my list of triggery shit. Who knew?”

“Triggery shit—the gift that keeps on giving,” Clint says. “That’s actually why I took a hike over Christmas. Last year I was involved in an op that went spectacularly sideways.” He pulls out the dinnerware, utensils and serving spoons. “Why don’t you find us a wine that pairs well with lethal levels of garlic?”

While he’s got his head in the wine cooler next to the fridge, Tony says, “So I asked Fury for a favor.”

Clint would lay serious money on the odds that these words have never passed Tony Stark’s lips before. “Yeah?”

“And I’m going to ask you for one.” He fusses with opening the wine bottle. “I’m scheduled for thoracic surgery next week. Considering recent events, I’m feeling a little twitchy about the time I’ll need to recover. Happy won’t be back to work for a month at least, and I’m gonna try to get him to take a longer vacation than that. I’d feel safer with you assigned here for the duration. Fury’s given his okay, if you—“

“Sure, no problem.” He wonders if this was set up before or after his suspension. Fuck it—who knows the mind of Fury? “Thoracic surgery. Sounds pretty serious.” Also like Tony is maybe avoiding something with the clinical description. 

He eases the cork from the bottle. “They’re taking out the arc reactor.”

Clint blinks. “Well, _sure_ they are,” he says at last. That gets no response, so he says, “Doesn’t it, like, keep your heart beating?”

“Close, but not quite. It powers an electromagnet that keeps shrapnel from entering my heart and stopping it from beating.”

“So I’m guessing they’re taking that out at the same time,” Clint says.

“Got it in one.” He turns to the cabinet to retrieve a pair of wine glasses. 

“You’ve been carrying all that around for a long time.”

“Microsurgery’s tough to pull off in a cave.” Tony’s using the flippant tone Clint affected back when he was deaf and in some kind of shit. He wonders now if the casual tone sounded as false as Tony’s. Maybe it’s just that he’s gotten to know Stark. “After that, I wasn’t really up for people coming at my chest with sharp things. Even when the arc reactor’s palladium core was poisoning me, the idea of someone rooting around in my chest—“

Cline recognizes Tony’s hit the point where fake casualness isn’t going to cut it. To give him a bit of a break, Clint ransacks a couple of wrong cupboards for napkins. 

“In the meantime,” Tony says, “I’ve been tinkering with some microsurgery tools. Got some teams trained here and Afghanistan. Their success rates are pretty good. Seemed like a good time to get this shit out of my chest.”

Translation: Tony made some tech to mitigate some of the damage his weapons created. Now that he’s made some highly personal decision that he’s ready to remove the shrapnel and reactor, he’s pretending the tech and training were for his own benefit all along.

Because he enjoys being an asshole, Clint relays this to Tony as he sets out the napkins. 

“You’re an asshole and I hate you,” Tony says without heat, prompting a grin from Clint.

“Since I’ve unlocked that achievement, I might as well ask you—“

“Oh, do go ahead,” Tony says, snark resumed.

“Can I see it? The arc reactor?”

The request clearly takes him off guard, but after a momentary pause Tony pulls up his Blue Oyster Cult tee. “I’m a little rank; sorry.”

Clint snorts. “You don’t know rank until you’re stuck in a safe house with me and Coulson for a month.”

“Agent Perfectly-Pressed?”

“The king of fart jokes.”

“Phil? You’re not shitting me? My whole life has been a lie.”

“He was a man of many layers.” Clint gestures at the reactor. “So let me take a look.”

Coming around the kitchen island toward Clint, Tony spreads his arms wide like a ringmaster, and Clint recognizes for the first time on a conscious level that he has the instincts of a master showman and revels in using them.

Clint leans in to get a closer look. “I used to think the glowy thing was part of the suit.”

“That was the idea. Shareholders tend to get very nervous when word of the CEO and head R&D guy’s delicate heart condition gets out.”

Though he’s seen it in passing since he’d learned otherwise, he’d still never really looked closely. There’s a metal housing sunk into his chest, with the reactor nestled within. “How deep does that go? Doesn’t it…crowd shit?”

“The squishy bits eventually shifted as necessary. It wasn’t the least comfortable thing about that time.”

“Nah, I guess not.” Clint can only blame his bleary exhaustion for what pops out of his mouth next. “What’s it like, having it there? You can’t exactly forget it’s there, right?” He’s already cringing when he sets about dishing up some of the food, hoping the distraction will let Tony forget he asked.

When he turns back and hands the plate to Tony, he’s surprised to find his dark eyes regarding him seriously. “It’s kind of a love-hate thing, to be honest. On the one hand, I made it, so it’s a work of genius, especially considering I made it from spare parts in a cave. And it’s kept me from, y’know, dying a horrible, agonizing death. Gotta love that. On the other hand, like you said, it’s a continuous reminder of three months I didn’t know I would survive. And a while later when it was actively killing me. It’s a vulnerability, for all it’s saving my life. Anyone who knows it’s there and what it does can turn it against me. Not to mention good old-fashioned body horror, which didn’t used to be a thing for me, but now kind of is, go figure.” He fills the wine glasses and downs a good half of his, then refills it. “Back on the plus side, it did a kickass job of cockblocking Loki when he tried to use his disco stick on me.” Smirking, he taps a finger against the glass of the arc reactor. “The look on his ratty little face.”

Much as he’d love to share Tony’s glee at thwarting Loki, all he can think of is the icy touch of the staff’s tip against his flesh, the same weapon that tore through Phil’s. “That fucking staff,” he mutters, then grabs up his plate and wine glass. “Let’s go eat in the dining room.” By the time Tony seats himself across the table, Clint has managed to regain control of his expression. He and Tony have both stuffed their feelings back where they belong, like reloading the spring-filled “snakes” into the fake cans of nuts they sold at the circus. 

The spend the rest of their meal arguing about the TV and movie marathons they should watch while Tony’s recovering.

***

Clint didn’t anticipate the easiest part of this assignment to be the most fun he’s ever had, but the toughest parts come as a surprise. He’d been thinking the boredom of the first few days of enforced stillness would bother him the most, especially since Tony could hardly be safer than in the medical wing of a SHIELD facility.

Not that many people, even here, realize who the patient is if they aren’t on his actual team. Before he was admitted, Tony had shaved off his beard and had his hair cut shorter than his favored style, to minimize the possibility any unauthorized persons spotting him would catch on to his identity. 

Post-op, Tony’s lying in a pool of light in an otherwise dimly-lit room, as Clint keeps watch from an interior window ledge facing the foot of the bed. The constant beep of the monitors is beyond irritating, but Clint keeps his receivers at his normal level to catch any small sounds of distress Tony might make. 

The light over Tony’s bed casts strange shadows over his face, sculpting new angles and highlighting the contrast of his dark hair against the pallor of his skin. Tubes and wires sprout from his torso and arms, another tube extends from the wall to feed oxygen into the cannula inserted in his nose. The only thing that seems remotely characteristic of Tony Stark is the slight, intermittent twitch of his fingers, as if his body resists complete stillness, even in these circumstances. Without Tony’s constant motion and near-nonstop commentary, the figure with chest swathed in bandages could be almost anyone. 

Could be Phil.

He hadn’t expected it to twist at his gut this way, thinking of having had, at the very least, a chance to be at Phil’s bedside. That would have half killed him too, Clint is certain, but it feels like a fresh loss to realize he’d been denied the chance to sit with him, to take his hand and witness the end.

Doctors, nurses and aides come and go, some nodding at Clint as they enter, some focusing solely on their patient. Clint watches them check vitals, administer meds, adjust bedding, weighing their expressions and movements for signs of alarm or concern, but he doesn’t interact unless spoken to.

Sometime in the early morning, the door opens and a hulking man in a zip-up jacket and baseball cap slips silently into the room.

“Wrong room, ace,” Clint growls. “Just back on out and go.”

The guy carefully spreads his arms, palms outward. His face is shadowed by the cap, lost to the afterburn of the brighter hallway lighting. “Clint, it’s Steve.”

Clint slips his blowgun back into his pocket and rises to greet him. “Good to see you, man.”

To his surprise, Steve takes his offered hand and pulls him into a hug. As Steve releases him, Clint’s mortified to feel the smear of moisture along his cheek. He realizes he’s been watching the rise and fall of Tony’s bandaged chest with tears tracking down his face. For a while, he’d guess.

Steve peers at him with concern. “Fury told me everything went well. Is he—?” He turns to glance at Tony, who’s still deep in post-surgical sleep. 

“He’s good,” Clint assures him, roughly palming away tears. “This is all just—“

“Kicking up some shit, as they say these days?”

A circus lot full of shit, yeah. “You could say that.”

Clint can see the moment it clicks for Steve, who has been gazing at Tony. “Yeah,” Steve says softly. Putting a hand on Clint’s shoulder, he says, “You look like you could use some rest. I’ll take a watch if you want a break.”

“Maybe later. I want him to see me here first. He asked for me on this detail.”

“Pepper must be off getting a few hours’ sleep.”

“Uhh, no. He sent her off to China without telling her.”

“Oh, that’ll end well.” 

Clint snorts. “He said if she stayed, ‘she’ll worry, and when she worries she makes this face, and then she breaks up with me.”

“I’m glad I came, then.”

Clint settles back on his window perch, gesturing to Steve to take the visitor’s chair, but he seats himself beside Clint.

“I didn’t find out what was going on with Tony until it was over,” Steve says. “I got invited to spend Christmas week in Massachusetts by the grandkids of one of my old squad.”

Clint can’t help the twinge of envy stealing over him. “That sounds nice.” As he sees the pinched look that crosses Steve’s face, he adds, “Or…not.”

“It was kind of weird an awkward, to be truthful. They were really trying to be nice, and they went to a huge amount of trouble….”

“But what?”

“They decided what I needed was a real 1940s style Christmas. They got a bunch of old radio shows and board games, made an authentic Christmas dinner, mock apple pie for dessert.”

“What’s mock apple pie?”

“It’s made with crackers instead of apples.”

“ _What?_ That sounds completely nuts.”

“It works, though. I don’t know why, but it tastes like apple pie. And the presents—just like when I was a kid. Everyone got an orange and a banana, a handful of nuts and three pieces of hard candy.”

“Oh, shit.”

“That went over about as well as you’d expect it to. The one good thing—well, there was more than one, because Dugan’s grandkids are all really kind, nice people. My favorite thing—once I saw how things were going to go, I got them to borrow a toboggan from their neighbors and we went out every day in the snow. That’s the one thing I never got to do when I was a kid, because of my lungs. So we’d go outside and I’d wear those kids out, sledding and building snowmen and a snow fort. So anyway, there was a complete media blackout, except for old radio and _It’s a Wonderful Life_ —which didn’t come out until…after. That’s how I didn’t know about Tony.” Steve sputters a laugh. “Jesus, Clint those kids hated every minute.”

“Yeah, old movies aren’t quite—“

“No, I mean my visit. Their parents made sure they were polite, but I knew.” He affects a newsreel announcer voice. “ _Captain America ruins Christmas!_ It was excruciating.” 

Clint erupts into laughter. “Oh god, that’s brutal.”

“Yep,” Steve says, adding a little pop to the P. “It wasn’t just one family’s Christmas I destroyed. All four of Dugan’s grandkids came together with their spouses and kids. Nine little kids, and those who were too young to be disgusted with the whole holiday were terrified by the huge stranger stuck in the middle of everything. At least the older ones I could take out on my last day of the visit. Just them. I took them to see a movie with fart jokes, then we went for pizza and arcade games at one of those kid-oriented places. I threw away a breathtaking amount of money there, but at least they didn’t hate me by the end of it.”

This is the best laugh Clint’s had in a while. “Hell, not even Tony would trade his shitty Christmas for yours.”

Steve cocks a lopsided grin. “I suspect you’re right. I might have traded for his. At least cut mine short, if not for the media blackout. I heard you had kind of a walkabout over Christmas too. What d’you say next year we spend the holidays together? I’m game for anything, except _The Shadow_ and _Lum and Abner_.”

“it’s a deal,” Clint says, though he suspects it’s one that will be long forgotten by June. It’s a nice thought, anyway. “So how’s the consulting gig at the Smithsonian going?”

The pinched look comes over Steve again. “Turns out it’s not just a World War II exhibit. It’s about me. That’s what got me in touch with Dum Dum’s grandkids. I’ve been trying to spread out the focus a little. Anyhow, they managed to collect a ton of stuff for me to sort through and put in context, and a million stories they want me to tell. Speaking of kicking up a lot of shit.”

“Ah, man,” Clint says. “That sucks. I see why the SHIELD med bay’s an improvement.”

The moment is broken by the sound of harsh breathing and whimpers from Tony. Clint is off the ledge and by his bed in three strides.

“Get it off me, _get it out_.” Tony’s hands tug ineffectually at the restraints, which triggers a full-body struggle to free himself.

“Tony.” Clint takes one of his hands and lays a gentle hand on Tony’s opposite shoulder. “Tony, hey.”

“Yinsen,” he gasps.

“Tony, it’s Clint. You’re safe. Open your eyes.”

Tony does so, but they’re wide and terrified, unseeing.

“You had surgery, Tony. You probably hurt like hell, but you’re safe, and you’re healing. Your own bed is just a couple of miles away.” Clint isn’t sure how much gets through, but Tony’s struggling subsides to some degree. “You can relax now. You’re in New York and it’s 2012. I’m here, like you asked me to be, and Cap’s here too.”

“Surgery,” Tony repeats.

“Yeah. They took out the shrapnel.” He’s not sure he should mention the arc reactor until he’s certain Tony’s fully aware. “That’s why your chest hurts. They went in and got every last bit.”

He doesn’t seem to hear. “Fuck! Yinsen! Help me sit up.”

“No no no, Tony, listen to me.” Clint increases the gentle pressure on Tony’s shoulder. “You’re okay. You’re safe, you’re in New York.”

“New York,” Tony echoes. “Does Obie know?”

Clint has no clue who Obie is. “We’ll take care of that, but you need to lie still.”

The door opens and a nurse—oh, hell yeah, it’s Hector, Clint’s favorite—enters, with Steve on his heels. 

“Oh hey, man,” Clint says. “I am so glad to see you on the team.” If anyone can wrangle Tony Stark, it’s him.

“Good seeing you too,” Hector says. “Especially in one piece. That’s new.” He flicks his gaze over the monitors, then bends over Tony. “Good morning, Mr. Stark. How’s it hangin’?”

God, Clint loves this man.

Tony’s panic seems to be falling away. “Precariously.”

Hector grins. “Luckily I’ve got duct tape. My name’s Hector, and I’m your first shift nurse, at your beck and call. Do you know where you are?”

“New York.”

“Got it in one. You know where in New York?”

“Hospital.”

“Close. You’re in SHIELD’s med facility. You had surgery, and you came through with flying colors. You know who these gentlemen are?”

Tony’s gaze flickers to him and then Steve. “Barton. Cap.”

“Good man. Let’s check you over and then you can get some sleep, and when you wake up it’ll be sunshine and Little Debbie cakes.” He pulls the privacy curtain.

Steve tells Clint that Hector says he’s got his pick of any room on this hall to bunk down in, if he doesn’t want to go too far away.

“You asked?”

Steve nods.

“Thanks for that.” Once Hector has finished his exam and taken his leave, Clint leaves the next watch to Cap.

***

The next day Tony’s still sleeping more than he’s awake, but he’s passed into lucid territory. The restraints have come off and he’s halfway through his dinner tray when Clint asks, “Oh hey. When you were first coming out of it, you asked about someone named Obie. You wanted me to let them know—“

“ _No,_ ” Tony snaps, but his look of utter horror would be enough to shut down that question. “He’s dead.”

“Aw, shit, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Really.” He lets his fork clatter onto the tray.

“Fuck, I ruined your dinner.”

Tony gives him a look. “It’s hospital food. It’s unruinable.” 

It’s a risk, but Clint takes it. “So, you want to get this Obie thing off your chest? Seeing as how there’s not all that extra structural support there anymore, I mean.”

Tony eyes him for a good while before he says, “Sure. Obie—he was Obediah Stane, the man who ran my company.”

“Stane, yeah. I remember. He died in a plane wreck, or did an Earhart or something, didn’t he?”

“Doesn’t actually matter which one, because the official story isn’t true. Remember the big Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots cosplay that happened shortly before I came out as Iron Man?”

“Sure. That was one helluva mess.”

“Coulson must’ve left that one need-to-know. So the clunkier, less elegant robot was actually Stane in a knock-off of the first Iron Man suit. That battle was him trying to kill me. He was a little pissed off, since the Ten Rings screwed up the job, and then he failed to do it when he yanked the arc reactor out of my chest. That one was close, though.”

Clint blinks. There are so many levels of fucked-up in that brief synopsis that it’s hard to wrap his mind around them. “But I remember all that stuff he said when you were missing. How you were like a son to him.”

“Apparently not so true,” Tony says. “However, he _was_ like a father to me. If I asked for him, I probably thought I was in Afghanistan. That and I must’ve been high as balls.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Tony waves a hand, cutting off the movement with a wince. “You didn’t know. Hell, I didn’t either until he hit me with a paralyzing agent and pulled out the arc reactor while giving me the ‘I never really liked you’ speech.”

Clint shakes his head. “That’s harsh.” It’s inadequate, but he feels the need to say something.

Tony gives him a long, assessing look.

Shrugging, Clint says, “Let’s skip the suspense. My brother. Haven’t seen him for about half my life now. Don’t really want to.” He doesn’t say more, though he would, if Tony asked. He doesn’t have to, though, when Steve enters the room with Hector, who’s now off-duty, though he’s pushing an empty linens cart. The cart is going to provide the table for their poker game, which will last until Tony starts to flag or Hector calls it.

Poker becomes a nightly ritual, and at one of the games, talk turns to Christmas. Not even Hector’s holiday was sunshine and Little Debbie cakes. “My _abuela_ died on Christmas Eve. My parents both worked crazy long hours, so she pretty much raised me.”

“This Christmas needs a fucking do-over,” Tony announces. 

“No kidding,” Steve says fervently.

“Seriously. Christmas. My place. Two days after I get released.”

True to his word, Tony invites them to the tower penthouse for an insanely extravagant holiday dinner. 

“Shouldn’t Pepper be here too?” Clint asks. “Her Christmas sucked pretty hardcore.”

“Indeed it did,” Tony says, reaching for his glass of Pellegrino. He’s still on the pain meds, so he’s passing up the wine, as is Steve. It’s damn fine wine. “But she gets her own separate Christmas mulligan. What she’s going to want most for Christmas is to rip me several new orifices for not telling her about the surgery. She won’t enjoy it as much if she can’t go full bore.”

“You are a gracious and generous man,” Steve says wryly.

“A gentleman and a scholar,” Tony agrees. “Speaking of generosity, let’s get to the presents. We can have dessert afterward.”

They leave the table for the catering team to clear, heading for the living room, where many boxes, including an enormous one, have appeared, along with the presents that Steve, Hector and Clint brought. 

Tony, who protests that he didn’t need presents considering their continued presence in his hospital room, is promptly shouted down. He gets the entire _Iron Manhood_ porn franchise collection (from Clint), a box of homemade cream cheese and guava pastries (Hector) and a nice watch in a presentation case (Steve).

Steve gets Ron Chernow’s biographies of Washington and Hamilton in hardcover with deckle edges (Clint), a box of homemade cookies covered with colored sugar (Hector) and a fancy stereo that plays vinyl, the original prototype Captain America shield and a huge donation to a children’s hospital (Tony).

Clint gets a homemade pineapple rum cake and a battered book on First Aid (har har, Hector), a purple leather harness and leash for Pasha and purple high top sneakers for him (Steve) and a sweet recurve bow and a huge donation to a rescue for old circus animals (Tony). 

Hector gets a bottle of Havana Club Seleccion de Maestros rum and one of Angostura Single Barrel Dark (Clint), a pair of Crocs—Hector’s favored duty shoe—hand-painted with a happy sun eating a Little Debbie cake on each (Steve). 

The ginormous box, it turns out, is for Hector. It’s a shrink-wrapped pallet of Little Debbie cakes of assorted flavors. “Um,” he says, and the four of them burst out laughing until they’ve melted onto their various chairs or sofa (except Clint, who has laughed himself all the way onto the floor). 

“Don’t worry about getting it home,” Tony says after he recovers, his hand splayed on his chest. “I’ll have it delivered.”

“Um,” Hector repeats, which sets them all off once more.

“Oh hey,” Tony says once the second round of laughter has calmed down. “I forgot the sunshine part.” He holds out an envelope, which Hector approaches to take.

“You’ve got me nervous, now.” He opens the envelope, then stumbles back to sit heavily on an ottoman. “Shit, really?”

“What?” Clint asks.

“A Caribbean cruise, plus five days in San Juan for a family reunion.”

“Wow,” Steve says, at the same moment Clint blurts, “Holy shit. That’s excellent.” 

“Tony, this is—“

“Don’t say it—“

“—way too much.”

“Look, you talked me down from several freakouts, you put up with my attitude,you washed my balls. I don’t care that it’s your job. The rest of my care team are getting something too, but you’re my favorite. That’s a burden you’ll have to bear.”

Hector gives in to the inevitable with gratitude and eyes that might be a little damp. The rest of them give him a pass on it; after all, it’s mulligan Christmas, and it’s all sunshine and Little Debbie cakes.


End file.
